Why Did I Choose You?
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: A birthday fic for the lovely dibdab4, my long-lost sister. :) Love you, sweets! Here's some Barbra Streisand-inspired Chelsie love. xxx (Accompanying fanvid on my tumblr)


**A/N: This fic is for dibdab4 (elliehopaunt on tumblr). I asked if she had a birthday request, and she sent me this – a nod to our mutual affection for Barbra Streisand's music. There's an accompanying fanvid on my tumblr (csota - dot - tumblr - dot - com), because it'** **s a SPECIAL birthday.**

 **I hope you enjoy it! After reading, please leave a wee review and then hop on over to tumblr and wish this lovely lady a very Happy Birthday! xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _Why did I choose you?_

 _What did I see in you?_

 _I saw the heart you hide so well._

 _I saw a quiet man who had a gentle way,_

 _A way that caught me in its glowing spell._

 _Why did I want you?_

 _What could you offer me?_

 _A love to last a lifetime through._

 _And when I lost my heart so many years ago,_

 _I lost it lovingly and willingly to you._

 _If I had to choose again,_

 _I would still choose you..._

* * *

 _ **December 24, 1924**_

It's like something out of a dream. Mrs. Hughes can hardly believe she's standing there, that he's said the words. She's shocked that she's not dropped the crystal mugs full of punch that she carried down only moments ago.

There's a feeling in the room that they've finally completed an important crossing, one that took thirty years to bridge instead of the thirty stairs they've just descended. They stand face to face; his eyes are pleading as though they're willing her to comprehend what he's tried to say, and the deafening tick of the clock is counting the moments of her life, of _their_ lives … moments she never once felt like she was wasting but which she now feels are flying by, as if each precious millisecond is suddenly slipping from her grasp.

The need to speak is great; she can hardly manage to _breathe,_ but the words come forth regardless. She may be many things, but none of those things involve a woman incapable of action when action of some sort is surely needed.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

Mr. Carson feels as though his heart may stop right here and now. He's laid his heart before her, this woman of such grace and charm whom he's always held in the highest esteem, and now he sees some unidentifiable emotion passing across her face, something moving by so fast he's having trouble catching it all despite many years' practice of doing just that, of reading her when no words were spoken. Well, _he_ has just spoken, of course. Perhaps it was too much.

 _No,_ he reassures himself, _but you flubbed the entire thing, too._

He'd had it all prepared, all rehearsed and practiced for days, and yet when he was confronted by her uncertainty, by her fear that he had bought a home for them out of _pity_ instead of love, anything he had originally memorized simply fell out of his mind.

Still, he _had_ managed to get his point across … at least, he _thought_ he had. Somehow over the course of a few seconds, "Would you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?" turned into "I _do_ want to be stuck with you."

 _But it's the same thing, really … isn't it?_

She's clearly stunned, though, and now he's becoming afraid that she's not even happy about it.

He'd been so sure, _so sure_ that she'd be willing. There had been hints, after all - the offer of a warm hand, a flirtatious look, the way in which she'd been taking his arm more on the way to church and holding herself more closely to him, and the way that their nights spent over glasses of wine or sherry had increased in length, filled with stories of their childhoods and their families, with tales of things more personal than previous evenings when they'd simply discussed books and staff, rotas and parties.

 _Oh, heavens … she doesn't think she's understanding me correctly …_

He cannot possibly allow her to slip away. And so he takes a deep breath, wills his heart to remain beating, and speaks.

"You are, if you think that I am asking you to _marry_ me."

 _There._

He's said it clearly now, a bit more like he'd imagined. He feels a bit faint, and the background of the room is muddled as he focuses so intently on her face, still trying to divine her thoughts as though he could simply pluck them from her beautiful, sharp mind as he's always done before.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

 _Oh, dear … he thinks he's overstepped -_ _ **offended**_ _, even!_

Honestly, the very last thing in the _world_ that she's feeling at this moment is _offended_ by what he's said! She simply cannot allow this to go on and so she hands him his cup, proposes a toast.

She can see that his uncertainty is a very real, palpable thing; it's as if he had come into the room strong and sure but is now deflating by the second before her very eyes. She feels the need to lighten the mood, to tease - it's her way, after all, and the poor man looks as though he's about to drop. So she tells him that they're toasting that she has actually _received_ a proposal, and at her age! What she _means_ is that it's taken him such a bloody long time to come around that she'd nearly given up on him.

She's sure he's misunderstood her again.

 **oOoOoOoOoOo**

"And that's … it?"

He hopes that her words aren't inferring that he's only proposed _because_ of her age, hopes she doesn't think he's gone and done it all because she can't manage on her own. He'd originally seen the timing of her pulling out of the house venture as serendipitous, giving him a way to offer both his heart _and_ a life together outside of these walls, but now he sees that perhaps the timing couldn't have been more _wrong,_ that she might think he's doing it all out of pity and not love.

He's tearing up, feeling so overwhelmed and confused. He realizes that he's completely lost control over the entire situation, that he's delivered it all into her hands to do with it what she will. He's the formidable butler, able to withstand many a trial and tribulation, able to hold the entire Abbey on his shoulders when needed, yet he's nearly been brought to his knees by the small, beautiful creature before him.

 _How on earth did you ever think you'd get through this?_

His heart will shatter should she refuse him; he's sure of it now.

He watches as she places her hand on her chest and steps closer, listens as she teases him, calls him an 'old booby' - something she's certainly _never_ done in all their years together. It's something a wife would call a husband, and he can't stop his lip from quivering slightly as he struggles to maintain his last hold on consciousness.

And then there it is, what he's needed the entire time - her hand on his arm, steadying him just as she always has, the weight of her hand strong and calm and _sure._

"I thought you'd never ask."

He draws in a profoundly deep breath, able to manage it at last, and feels a tear escape its holding and slink down his face, silently betraying his fear.

She reaches up to touch him, to brush it away and to cup his cheek.

He grasps her wrist just as she's about to move her hand away from his face. "Wait."

Her brow furrows a bit, and she tilts her head.

"You thought I'd never ask? Truly?"

"Mr. Carson," she says, almost laughing in disbelief. "We've been … well, I don't know, precisely. Headed toward … _something,_ for _so long."_

His words are a whisper, its harshness belying the lump in his throat and the tears burning his eyes. "It's always been you. I hope you know that. It just … It's taken me a while to gather the courage to _ask._ "

It's her turn to be on the back foot. "Always?"

He nods, then takes her cup and his and sets them aside on the table before turning back to her and taking her hands in his own, squeezing them tenderly, his eyes drinking in every aspect of her face as he speaks … her brilliant eyes, the faint crease of her brow, the slight blush of her cheeks, the deeper red of her beautiful mouth.

"Mrs. Hughes, surely you know how I feel. I ... I was hoping you felt the same. I'm not doing this out of some ... some sense of responsibility to you, you know."

"I _didn't_ know," she admits, shaking her head. "I hoped, but I wasn't sure. But, Mr. Carson … What made you ask me ... What I mean is, when were you sure that _this_ is what you wanted?"

His brow furrows and she feels his hand tremble slightly in hers.

"Wait a moment," he says, attempting to cobble together something that resembles sense and reason. "You thought I'd never ask," he repeated slowly. "Which meant you … _wanted_ me to? But that means that you've … for a while now …"

He shakes his head, and she laughs. Words don't often fail him - or her - but they're certainly stumbling all over them now!

"I did," she admits with a smile. "And I'd like to point out that I've answered _two_ of your questions now, but you've not yet answered mine."

He looks deep into her eyes, seeking courage. "It was when we were in Brighton."

"In _Brighton?_ Oh … heavens."

He smirks at that. "It always takes me awhile to embark upon a new path, Mrs. Hughes. You of all people should know that."

She's clamping her lips together tightly now, nodding slowly.

"You're sure? Of _your_ answer, I mean? To the original question, " he clarifies, his voice quiet again.

"Oh, yes. I've been quite sure what _that_ particular answer would be for a very, very long time."

Instant regret seeps into his heart at the thought that they could have gotten to this point _years_ ago, perhaps. "For how long?" he whispers.

She's astonished to find she has to _think_ about it. Her love for him has been a part of her for so many years that she's not sure when it actually began. Her lip is drawn beneath her teeth as her mind travels back over it all, over all the years they've spent side-by-side but not quite _together._

He watches as her eyes fall to his chest and her gaze dulls, knowing she's doing the same thing he is: going back in time through endless stairs and events and cups of tea ...

… _a secret kept, a shame hidden, brought to the forefront by the need for a confession, truth being the only explanation she could give as to why she couldn't possibly move forward and live out her little dream of purchasing a home with him …_

… _his stubbornness as she came into his room once again to see that he was, indeed, resting; her insistence that propriety be damned, but she would be checking up on him to see that he was obeying Dr. Clarkson's orders …_

… _the look in her eyes when he'd made the decision to go to Haxby, and the different look when he told her he'd be staying after all …_

… _a steadying touch, offered at a time when one was sorely needed, given along with an accompanying smile, a shift in their balance that steadied him nonetheless …_

… _the harbinger of death that kept knocking on their door, and how it blessedly spared her despite the others it left behind in its wake …_

"It was the day of the flower show."

Her words snap him back to the present, and he realizes he has absolutely no idea what she means.

"The flower show? _Which_ flower show?"

She smiles softly at him, her face glowing with nostalgia.

"You asked me if I thought you very silly - a 'sad, old fool,' if I remember correctly. And when I turned and saw you, you looked so defeated. I know now that it was from what you perceived as your shame before the family, shame at having your 'Cheerful Charlie' past brought out in the open. But I had no idea at the time what you meant."

"No," he agrees, looking down. "Nor did I ever want you to know."

"Well," she says, moving her hand down to place it over his heart, "I turned to answer you, and that was it."

"That was _what?"_

A laugh bubbles up and out of her. "That was the moment when I knew, Mr. Carson. I have never wanted to comfort someone more as I did at that very instant, to offer reassurance and a kind touch … or more. It was instantaneous, and I realized in that moment that part of me had felt that way for a long time, indeed."

"And yet you said nothing," he marveled.

Her smile falters a bit, and she shakes her head.

"No," she shrugs. "I couldn't. But we got here in the end, and that's what matters."

"It was later, for me," he admits, guilt creeping in around the edges of his words. "The beginning, anyhow."

"Yes, I know it was."

He looks up, quickly. "You do?"

The lip disappears again as she contemplates spilling the small secret she's kept within her heart all these years. It's only the promise of _more_ secrets in years to come that allow her to give it over to his caring, to share in the beauty of that moment once again.

"I heard you singing, Mr. Carson. In your pantry. I hadn't gone up and … well, I watched you. And then I knew."

He blushes, but to his credit she sees no shame in his eyes. Only a deep, abiding love, one which allows the briefest flicker of pain at the memories before sweeping it away once again.

* * *

 _ **May 16, 1925**_

She hears the words falling forth from his lips, spoken softly and clearly before all and sundry, and her heart gives a small flutter at the feel of his hand on hers, of the ring sliding onto her hand at last.

She had said she had no need of a ring, but he'd insisted. In hindsight, she's glad of it. The ring is only the second piece of brand-new jewelry she's ever owned; the first had been her chatelaine. She feels it's rather fitting now, one marking the beginning of her tenure as Mrs. Hughes, the other marking its end.

Reverend Travis pronounces them man and wife, and as they turn they're both beaming. Her hand and arm brush his on the way back down the aisle. They're nodding at their guests, both of them proud (and a bit surprised) at how full the pews are. The entire family and staff are there, and a good many people from the village as well.

He wasn't going to kiss her in front of them; they'd decided that days ago, both feeling at the time that it wouldn't be appropriate in front of the family. But his happiness is making him giddy, and she's right there and _so beautiful_ and he just can't help himself.

She sees him leaning over and she pulls on his arm, pulling him towards her with a force that surprises them both, and he hums against her lips. It's not their first (nor even the fourth or fifth ...), but there's something about how it's their first kiss as a _married_ couple that makes it perhaps the best yet.

It's not until they're halfway to the schoolhouse that he remembers something he'd wanted to ask her yesterday.

"The flower show," he says suddenly, and she laughs.

"Oh, Charles. Not that again!"

"No, I _believe_ you," he says, trying to explain. "But that was before the fair …"

 _Ah. He's gotten there, then._ She smiles coquettishly at him from underneath her eyelashes.

"Before your _other_ proposal. The one from the farmer."

She reaches for his hand and takes it in hers, giving it a good squeeze.

"Yes, it was," she says simply.

They walk on for a bit, and he asks, "No regrets?"

She stops walking and pulls him over to the side of the path. The other guests have already gone ahead and are at the schoolhouse by now. Looking about to be sure they're alone, she reaches up and pulls his head down gently for one more sweet, lingering kiss.

"Charles," she says slowly, "why do you think I stayed?"

She smiles as his eyebrows go up, the boyish surprise on his face a sweet comfort to her, the sure message that he's still the Charles she fell in love with when he'd looked so sad and forlorn at the thought of being thought a fool.

"I'd choose you again, love, if I had the chance. Each and every time; it would always be you."

He touches his forehead to hers and smiles. "As would I, Elsie. As would I."

* * *

 **Happy Birthday! :)**


End file.
